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‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I don’t want your money,’ he said.
She blinked, the tiny spurt of hope comprehensively drowned out by total astonishment as what he seemed to be implying simply failed to compute. ‘So you’d be willing to keep us out of it without being paid?’
No way, that couldn’t be right. The man was a rat. He’d shown his true colours sixteen years ago. She had not misread this situation that much.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied.
Bingo. ‘I thought not,’ she said, pleased she hadn’t been wrong. Twenty grand was a small price to pay for the heady satisfaction of finally being right where he was concerned.
‘But money’s not what I’m after from you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all I’m offering.’ She had no idea where he was going with this, and she didn’t want to know. Luke’s cunning plans, his ridiculous schemes, his hidden agendas were not her problem any more. She’d gotten over caring what the heck was going on inside his head years ago.
‘All I want is a favour from you,’ he continued. ‘Then I’ll do you one in return and drop the book deal. Autobiography’s not really my thing anyway.’
‘What favour?’ The question spilled out, one split second before she remembered she didn’t give a toss about Luke’s stupid hidden agenda.
She realised her mistake when his eyes took on the intent gleam that had once excited her to the point of madness, but now looked decidedly feral. ‘I’m doing a piece on Jackson Monroe, ever heard of him?’
‘Of course I have, he’s that American guy who calls himself the Love Doctor and runs some fancy rehab clinic for divorcing celebrities. He was on The Graham Norton Show a few weeks ago, pushing his bestselling book.’ She searched her memory. ‘And talking loads of bollocks about his new method of relationship rehab for the rich and incredibly gullible.’
And what the bloody hell did some jumped-up, smooth-talking twerp who had made a killing pretending to be the answer to the rising divorce rate have to do with the privacy of her and her children?
‘He calls himself the Love Surgeon, actually,’ Luke said. ‘But bollocks is right and I plan to prove it, by going on one of the relationship retreats at his place in Tennessee. But to do that, I need a plus-one with a profile. Because it’s a course for high-profile couples.’ He lifted his fingers to do air quotes. ‘Who are experiencing a breakdown in their love relationship. And that’s where you come in.’
It took a moment for her to process what he was asking. But then realisation hit her square in the face. And the unpleasant jolt hit eight point five on the Richter scale.
‘Are you completely fucking insane?’ She never used the F-word—not since she’d got over her infatuation with Luke and discovered it wasn’t that pleasant coming from your three-year-old daughter. But it shot out without warning as her head started to implode.
He could not be serious. He’d blackmailed her into coming to Paris to give her some bullshit ultimatum for an article he was writing? As if she had nothing better to do? As if her career wasn’t far more important and full on than his? As if she were still the wide-eyed, besotted acolyte who had been prepared to do anything for him?
‘We don’t have a love relationship,’ she said, just in case he’d missed that salient point. ‘We never had a love relationship.’
‘Gee, that hurts.’ He clapped his hand to his chest in a pantomime of wounded feelings. ‘I distinctly recall you telling me how madly in love with me you were when we first went all the way.’
‘That’s funny, because I don’t recall any such thing.’ Of course she recalled it. And how incredibly crass of him to rub her face in it now.
‘Really?’ he said, the mocking smile lancing through the last of her composure. ‘It was right after I—’
‘If I did say something like that …’ she interrupted, to stop him going into any more detail. The last thing she needed was to have the humiliating picture stuck in her head of him lying on top of her with that I’ve-finally-popped-my-cherry smile on his face while she clung on to him and told him how wonderful he was, because she was desperately trying to romanticise the moment and take her mind off the extreme chafing caused by his enormous cock.
‘It was probably because I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘Ouch, another direct hit.’
The teasing comment made her sense-of-humour failure complete.
‘OK, I’m off.’ She picked up the contract to shove it back in her briefcase and slammed the lid with a satisfying crash. ‘I don’t have time for this crap.’
‘Hey.’ He took her wrist. ‘I was kidding. No need to get your knickers in a knot.’
‘Don’t touch me.’ She yanked her hand away. Forced herself to breathe, before she smashed her fist into his face and broke his bloody nose a second time.
She wanted to shout at him that their past—and the cruel way he’d treated her—wasn’t a joke, could never be a joke, not to her. But that would give him much more importance than he deserved.
‘No touching, I promise.’ He held his hands up. ‘Just hear me out. All I’m asking is two weeks of your time. I know we don’t have a relationship any more, but we do have shit we haven’t been able to deal with because you have consistently refused to communicate with me directly.’
